Origins: Daughter of the night
by AnotherSkygirl
Summary: Short story trying to imagine some very early background to Mierin Eronaile/Lanfear; rated T for violence and implied sexual content


Sunny. Too bright. A white circle of light fades into the background; it gives space to a reddish, orange landscape; the sky is bright blue, the blue that hurts almost as much as the heat. This is not a forgiving land.

It's not a desert - it has water, although not as much as any other place on the planet - but it's enough for the population there. It has trees, large ones, dry ones, with long grandiose roots. The grass is yellow and soft; There are some farms, they have corn fields.

The nights are as dry as the day, and the sky just as bright. To an astrologist, this would be the best place on earth. The stars - you wouldn't miss a single one - and the moon, always high, never hidden.

Its dry. Its weary. The wind blows too much, and sings a melody hard to catch. She walks the streets and the wind speaks more than all the voices around. It strikes her face, her bare arms, her eyes; they water, but never close. The smell of revolved earth and cinnamon mix strangely - it's the smell of Home.

Its night. Her skin is soft, and glows under the stars and the moon. The wind is still strong, but it doesn't hurt now. The path is worn out, and it mostly fades into corn fields. Everywhere. The yellow grass is sanctuary. The music in the wind is silence - and it's a symphony. One you could not obtain anywhere else. Fingers rush through the grass, toes get entangled in it. This is Home.

This is not a forgiving land.

A man is walking the street, alongside so many other people, horses are scarce but it doesnt matter, its still chaotic to wander aimless. There are women rushing to something, men sitting in porches, smoking. The man belongs between them, they are a part of him, but still he stands out. He wears a white loose shirt. No one else does. Except the girl, walking a bit forward, to his right. White is not enough - she _glows_.

Too little they say. The walls are dark red, and the room would be big, only if the ceiling was higher and there were a bit less people. It's a regular assembly of citizens. The food is not enough. They'll have to racionate. The water can't be used without some extra thought either.

They discuss at home. He listens from behind a short and hidden flight of stairs. He feels fear; his eyes are widened, his breathing a little too harsh to be quiet. A woman raises her voice, something breaks. The smell of revolved earth and cinnamon. The door to the house is open. Behind him, he feels the drift from the street. They won't make it. None of them. His sister hasn't returned.

The woman is angry and tired. Their lives are difficult, she handles it all herself. Her life is difficult. Her clothes are sewed well, she is good at what she does. It's not enough. Her skin is coarse. Silk makes her inch. Her face reflects the land. They need to make it.

She walks the same streets, the same routine. The same symphony. She thinks. About the corn fields, the yellow grass. The stars. The moon. The universe. She wonders. She thinks there are _so many_ things to think. She gets lost in thought. Sometimes, she has a feeling, she - someone is following her. The land changes to her pace. She looks behind her shoulder. It doesn't smell like revolved earth, just the wind. The man has been close to her - too close sometimes - for a time now. She knows. She wishes she didn't but she feels it. Her back is pressed into a building. Silver. It tastes like silver. Her skin against the wall feels like silk - its coarse. It's just a prank. He smiles. They want a marriage. They need money. She gets them money. Her mother. The taste of silver intensifies. the cinnamon comes back. The scent of roses and smoke is too strong in her mind. Her mother is not forgiving.

The moon doesn't take all the attention; it fits as nothing like it with all the bright stars around it. It's not the night sky, it's the universe itself. The yellow grass is almost white. Somewhere near, there's too much smoke. And too many roses. And too many women, surrounded by drunk, and very rarely, wealthy men.

The light gets into one room only. Her skin is too bright. Its soft. But the silk is heavy. The man's hand on her back hurts. It burns. Her hair smells of ocean breeze, its soft curves, and curls are nothing like the sea up north. Her eyes, however, are much like the ocean at night: deep, black, unforgiving. A tear rolls of. Her hand reaches under the pillow. She is asleep.

The boy is asleep. His sister is beautiful, but not there. Never there. His mother. She is there. She isn't forgiving. And she is in a hurry. Impatient. And angry.

They drag her, - A witch! - the streets are paved in stone now, they are cold. The little rocks cut the skin off her feet. There are too many people. She can't see. Nothing makes sense. The landscape is cold. It's hot, she's dripping sweat, but she shakes. She can't maintain balance. She falls. Over. And over again. The crow shouts, they run. They walk too slowly, they lose pace. They push and pull. They are one thing, alive. Her head tries to focus on one point, and it does. A pyre.

There are hands all over her. They intent hurt. They damage. They cut. clothes, skin, hair. There are deep cuts and shallow cuts. They run throughout her entire body. They've tied her up. The fire has not started yet. So many people. The man is not there. He will never be anywhere else. A house down the east side of town burns with blue flames. The smell of burnt roses and smoke. So much smoke.

The boy doesn't understand. Or better, he does. But he feels blind, and deaf, and scentless. His sister is dragged. She is never _there._ Or is she. He remembers stories, lullabies. A soft, ebony skin hand brushing his dark hair. She is so much older. She has _so much_ more responsibilities. _His_ mother. His precious mother. Was he scared of her? He couldn't remember. He was afraid. Of what? He couldn't hear anything, the wind blew, voices came out of nowhere and everywhere. He was out of the house. Where was he. Too many people. He was so small. He was standing in front of the pyre. People were all around him, not an inch between them. He felt sadness, fear, and _anger._ He'd never felt that before. He was up on the pyre. His eyes weren't his anymore. What was this. He felt the heat, he was sweating. His head was spinning. Where was she. He could hear, he could listen, and he could see. They put a knife in his hands. She had betrayed him. A witch. He made a cut onto his sister's shoulders. He made another below her clavicle. And another on her forearm. And another. And another.

The knife fell to the floor, coloring it a darker shade of red. He was crying. He mixed in yet again with the crowd. They were going to burn her. His mother got up to the pyre. He felt so old now. He was sweating. There was dirt in his face. It was _warm._ It wasn't dirt. He was too tired. But not forgiving.

So many people. A witch.

The streets were made of stone now. Her mind so lost, and so focused. Too focused. Everything. She felt, she heard, she saw, all. Everything that could ever cross her mind, every thought she ever had, could have, all that the people below her could think, were thinking, ever thought. They were such clear concepts. It was all so clear - too bright. Like the night sky she loved too much. All the stars, the moon. The universe. The wind. The spark. The spark. The voices. That _flow_

The farmer was strange. She was at the corn field. She was there, in between the tall yellow grass. He seemed less real than anything, less achievable than even the moon. He was old. His beard was sparse and all white. His face was skinny; Too skinny. His skin was too dark. He mixed in too well withing the night. _Too well._ He knew her. She knew him. They weren't supposed to be there. Neither of them. He told her to be careful, striding alone at night in the tall fields of grass and corn. She standed out too much. He blended in too well. She told him she wasn't scared. Her nose was up high, a little smile played at the corners of her mouth. The night was hers. He laughed. His teeth were too white. He told her supposed there was no reason for the daughter of the night to fear its own creator. Her faint smile faded. She smelled silver. And honey. And felt a soft cold breeze brush her arm and cheek. She didn't blink. The man was gone. Was he ever there. Was she there. She saw nothing. No distinction between land or sky. She saw everything. An endless was the night's heir. The night was hers.

The crowd - was there ever a crowd? A silver massive flaming light was all she could see. it was so dense. She remembered a city. She remembered...she could _feel_ like she remembered something. It was at reach but she couldn't touch it. She was exhausted. It was gone. Everything. Something. Something was missing. _Was it?_ She was on the ground. It was made of cold hard stones now. A fresh cold breeze flew by her. Her skin didn't have a single imperfection. Her hair was much more lively. it followed the wind like its master. She felt the salt in her mouth. Where was she. _What_ was she.

Voices. Her fingers were numb, but they were slowly regaining some function. She could move her legs. A witch. Something cut. Cuts. _Silver._ And honey. A memory of revolted earth and some other smell. She collapsed. Too many memories came all at once. She fainted.

There was no city. There were no people. There were no ashes. No shards of walls. No bones. Everything was clean, and white, and crystal. It was beautiful. The wind sang differently now. The stone pavement was not exactly stone anymore. There was no city. There were no citizens. There was something, but there had been more. Had there? There was no history.

The land was beautiful. But it was unforgiving. And forgettable.


End file.
